


Carciofi

by Unovis



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-16
Updated: 2002-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3666855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trim the pricks, smack the bottom, loosen the leaves...<br/>A food and cooking story. Re-post of an old story, one of my first, from mid-April, 2002.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carciofi

The day was bright and brittle and could have been cast in glass. A thin wind sifted through his hair, whipping the budding branches of flowering cherry lining the avenues; he was frozen, shriveled in the spring, when he should be warming to the new cycle. He hated bad beginnings. He liked the familiar, the rightness of the turning year, that subtle reassurance that he was here, he was still here, riding the world's wheel.

Methos stubbed his toe on the mooring for the barge and stood looking stupidly at the ropes. Mac was gone, but there was cold comfort in breaking in and sheltering for the day at least--the door was always open to the man with a tension tool. Metal rattled against metal as he worked, startling him: his hand was shaking. Amanda would have smirked and elbowed him aside. Hell, Amanda would have made a key by now. He preferred breaking in. It was more immediate, more of a claiming than strolling in with a copied key. The lock clicked with a satisfying give and little groan. He patted the door and eased it open.

Mac had called Joe from wherever on his travels and asked him to keep an eye on the place. Furniture, what there was of it, had been covered. One night he'd been so worn out he crawled completely under the dropcloth on the bed and woke the next afternoon blinking at the light through a child's tent. Joe must have been airing things out, though, because the rough cotton tarps were folded in a stack and the bed had been freshly made.

During his visits he'd accustomed himself to the spare decor, the subdued hues and motley Eastern touches. Made them say "MacLeod" as much as the homier clutter and rich colors had. He shrugged out of his coat and weapons, grimacing at the chill. A fire would warm him and the room. He squatted and fussed with the kindling and starter until flames burned hot and yellow in the fireplace. Rising, he turned and stumbled over pillows he didn't remember leaving in the middle of the floor. He made it over to the dresser and pulled out a sweater; had just taken off his torn and soiled shirt when the buzz of Immortal presence shimmered through the bulkhead, moving rapidly toward the entry near his coat and sword. The aft door was locked. He whipped the sweater around his arm and ran forward as a weight thumped the deck outside and the door swung open on Duncan MacLeod, home at last.

They stared at each other. Mac looked good, solid, familiar even in short hair and stony colors. His skin was warm and dark. He set down a shopping bag and took off his coat. "Making yourself at home?"

Methos unwound the sweater and pulled it on over his head. "I could do with breakfast and a couch. Did you bring anything?" He recognized the bag from an expensive grocer. "When did you get back?" _And where have you been?_ He clenched his hand to keep his fingers from jittering against his leg.

"Yesterday. There's no couch, but I'll make you tea."

"Oh, I'm sure you can do better than that." Keeping Mac in the corner of his eye, he edged around the galley counter and reached underneath to the refrigerator. Nearly empty inside; he noticed a half-dozen eggs and a package wrapped in butcher paper. Food for more than a day. And meat. "Huh. Not much better. You're already out of beer. What's in the bag, then?"

"Unpack it and find out." Mac was over by the dresser, picking up Methos's fallen shirt. He held it up to show the rents and dried blood. "What have you been up to?"

Methos felt the twist in his chest loosen and expand. "Lost a fight and died. Hell of a way to start the day."

"Lost a fight? With who?" He twisted the shirt around his fist and looked concerned, Methos thought--though he couldn't be sure what about.

"With a homicidal truck. Hit and run, around dawn. Might have been an accident--I didn't feel anyone, just 'Heu, con!' and bang, smash, dead." He tried to shrug but his shoulders were too tight. "No witnesses, I guess. Head's still attached and I wasn't robbed." A tremor started in his hand again. He crossed his arms and grabbed his elbows to brace against it. He'd really wanted to bury himself in the bed and sleep the shock away, maybe after a good infusion of the Scot's scotch.

He looked up and Mac was standing in front of him, still with that line between his brows. His arm was clasped in a firm grip and given a reassuring shake. "I'll fix the tea. Go sit down."

"On what?" he scoffed--and a broad hand between his shoulder blades propelled him toward the pillows on the floor.

***

Methos woke up to a muffled clinking in the galley. He remembered kicking off his shoes, stretching out and closing his eyes, waiting for his mug of decaf hellbrew. Mac had thrown a quilt across him. The sun slanted low through the portholes.

His arm and hip ached as he sat up; the pillows must have shifted, leaving his bones pressing into the floor. It was less chilly now but his stomach felt empty. Hungry. He stood and wandered over behind MacLeod, who was rinsing something in the sink. "What are you doing?"

"Stuffing artichokes."

"Sounds painful."

Mac sniffed. "Watch and learn."

After a minute, he poked Mac in the ribs. "Stop that before you hurt yourself."

Mac shoved him back and gestured with the knife. "Don't harass the cook: I'm armed. And before you start any of your guff, it's a classic recipe."

"The problem's not the recipe--it's you, your technique, your, if I may be excused, anal approach."

"I've had no complaints before."

"Anybody ask the artichoke?" He frowned at the ingredients laid chastely in a row for breadcrumb stuffing and vinaigrette.

"Maybe it's the recipe after all. What's that meat in the fridge?"

"Just some minced beef." Mac turned and eyed him warily. "I'm not making you a hamburger."

"You're making a marinara; a good one, no wine."

"And the artichokes?"

"Leave them to the man who knows how." He nudged Mac again, to feel the heat of him, and twisted his face into what he hoped was an arch expression. "You know I love your sauce."

Mac harrumphed but gave way, edging behind him out of the narrow space.

Methos took over the counter, pushing aside the still life, and pulled out the meat and an egg. "Grate me some cheese, if you've got it." He shoved up the arms of his sweater and snagged a dishtowel from the rack. A red and sloppy dish. Hot colors and a solid meal sounded wonderful, just what the old barge needed. Two artichokes sat in the sink: big, green, and fleshy, out of season and imported. He moved them to the counter's cutting board as Mac dropped a wedge of parmesan and a grater next to him.

"You're supposed to be making sauce."

"When you're out of the way. Now show me this great technique of yours." Duncan leaned in, comfortably close, and crossed his arms.

Methos held the artichoke up. "The proper touch is essential. Firm but not too rough; handle it right or it'll bruise."

"A lot of palaver over an overgrown thistle."

"Stroke it and it prickles; grasp it and it's soft...."

"That's for nettles you idiot. Are you going to cut that stem or bore it to pieces?"

Methos grasped the stem and with a quick wrench twisted it off. "You don't cut off the stems, for one." He flipped the artichoke on its side and took up the knife. At his rapid shaving strokes the pricking tips fell to the board. When he finished trimming the leaves he picked the artichoke up and smacked its bottom sharply on the cutting board. "Opens it up," he said. He spread the inner leaves with his fingers and exposed the pale furled choke spiked in purple. With a few deft strokes of the knife he lifted it out. "Where's your pressure cooker?"

"You'll have to use that." Mac pointed to a covered iron kettle on the stove, plain and black.

Methos turned back to his work. "If I must." He sliced up the stems and tossed them into the pot with a little water, over a low flame. He picked up the other artichoke. Clipped its points, smacked its bottom, loosened its leaves, scooped out its choke. Touched the heart with a long finger. "Where the hell is everything?"

"What do you mean?"

"What did you do with your things? Throw them out? Put them in storage?"

"Both. What do you care?"

"So when this--phase is over with, are you going to pull your possessions back out, or start collecting all over again?" He plopped the artichokes in the pot and banged on the lid.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about this, this nouveau monastic habitat of yours, this gutted hulk, this flattened bed, this inhospitable shell--you don't have a surface here where Joe can sit, do you realize that? Or did you plan it? What about your friends, MacLeod, are you packing them away too or throwing them out?"

"My friends aren't things. You ought to know me better than that."

"Oh, spare me the platitudes." He slammed a mixing bowl onto the cutting board and turned the ground meat into it. "Know you, I don't know you anymore. You've been missing in action for two years now." He fisted a hole in the middle of the beef and slopped in the breadcrumb mixture; broke an egg into the well and stiffened. A thread of blood skeined across the surface of the yolk. He picked up part of the eggshell to lift away the blood and it smashed in his fingers.

Mac reached across the counter and skimmed off the scarlet line with the other half of the shell. "No matter; what's a little blood between friends?" The rhythm of his rant was lost--Methos thrust both hands deep into the mixture and squeezed, feeling the viscuous egg and gritty crumbs slide together. Incongruously, his eyes started to blur and he blinked. Mac leaned closer and brought his hands down on Methos's shoulders, pinning him in place. "What's going on here? Are you all right?"

A fine tremor started up his back. He felt weightless except for the anchor of Mac's hands and his fists rooted in the bowl of cold meat. He cleared his throat. His voice came out low. "I don't want to die. Not like this morning, not by accident like that. And I want you back." He looked up into Mac's face, into warm brown eyes steady on his.

Mac moved his hand up to press the back of his neck. "I'm here now." He rubbed his thumb across the short wisps of hair above the sweater, against the ridge of his skull, and grinned. "And you're alive." He pushed Methos back and dropped his hands. "Mooching and griping and making a mess, as usual. You'd better check that pot if you don't want it to boil dry."

"Oh, hell." Methos scraped his hands on the rim of the bowl and bunched up the dishtowel.

"Stay put." Mac moved around the end of the island and squeezed behind him, pressing Methos against the counter while he reached around and lifted the lid off the pot. "It's all right; how soft do you want them?" The space was tight; he kept an arm around Methos for balance. Maybe more than balance. "Move over and I'll start the sauce. There's just the one pot."

Methos turned in the circle of Mac's arms and looped the towel around his neck. "Don't move." He closed in for a kiss, an awkward, simple press against Mac's mouth that didn't seem to be ending as quickly as he'd intended. His hands clenched in the towel. The body pushing against him now was hard, Mac's thighs long and hot against his, a belt buckle digging into the soft skin above his navel, the borrowed sweater rasping across his sensitizing chest, arms flexing tight around him--there was a shift in position, Mac's head angling, and a lick, a tender flicker of a tongue against his lips. And it was over and he was dropping the towel, moving back the bare degree of space allowed.

"Well, that's new." Mac's face was lightly flushed. He didn't move. He smiled. "Let's finish dinner?"

Methos inhaled, shakily. Mac kept him trapped, while his pulse slowed and the bright tingle streaking up his torso calmed to a dull throb. He was released, allowed to sidle over, away from the stove. "Fine. Make the sauce. Use the cooking water and the stems." He took the bowl up again, moving step by step through the old remembered recipe with Mac hard by, working comfortably in the confines of the galley.

***

They circled around one another until it was time to set the table. The artichokes went into low stoneware bowls in pools of sauce. A loaf of hard-crusted bread, napkins, and beer from the magic shopping bag, much to Methos's private relief.

They sat close at the low table, Mac at the end and Methos along its side, complaining about folding his long legs on the mat. The sun had set and they ate by the light of a paper lamp and candles in the heat of the low-burning fire.

"This is messy, if you do it right," Methos stated with some satisfaction. He plucked an outer leaf with his fingers and ate the meat from it, then scraped its inner flesh off with his teeth, nibbling the sweet and tender end and discarding the chewed remnant on his plate. Sauce dribbled from the corner of his mouth and dripped from his fingers. The marinara was oily from the stuffing and rich with garlic and the mashed bits of stems. Methos tore a hunk of bread with stained fingers and sopped up a bite of sauce. "Good job."

"We need finger bowls." Mac picked at the filling with a fork, then tried to manage his leaf without dripping. A satiny orange drop fell on his shirt front and spread. "Or bibs."

Methos laughed. "Lick your fingers and use the bread." He manipulated another leaf and sauce ran down his wrist. The leaves grew more tender toward the middle, the flesh nuttier and melting on the tongue.

They left prints on the bottles and dark circles on the napkins, and ate without speaking, if not without noise. When Methos reached the thick bottom he sighed and opened another beer.

"Feeling better?" Mac asked.

"I used to eat this in Naples, in the early summer. Sitting in my undershirt, in the grape arbor."

"How picturesque. I had it in Chicago, in a brothel." He gestured at Methos's bowl with his fork. "That's the best part."

"I know. I'm saving it."

Mac reached over and cut a chunk off the gray-green delicacy with the side of his fork, swished it in the sauce, and ate it. Before Methos could protest, he grabbed him by the front of his sweater and kissed him.

This was different, this was better by miles, Methos thought, when his brain began to function. MacLeod's mouth was hot and saucy and lush, opening to the pressure of Methos's tongue--he slid in to taste and was captured, sucked and savored for the memory of the meal. He scrabbled for a grip on Mac's shirt and slipped, lost his balance, falling sideways with MacLeod following him down, bumping the table, both struggling to get their arms in place, knees clear of the table legs, pulling themselves together. He was on his back, a hand crushed between them; when Mac moved his head to breathe, he gasped, "Wait--just wait."

Mac leaned up on an elbow and shoved the table out of the way, rocking the bottles and knocking the bread to the floor. He was lying on Methos, weighing him down. Light pulsed on the planes of his face and his throat, dark against his shirt, moving with his breath. He brought a hand against the side of Methos's face and stroked it with his thumb.

"Too fast." He meant sudden. He freed his trapped hand and touched MacLeod's face for another proof of those lips, swollen now and warm. Mac licked his fingers and he shuddered.

"You want this?"

Mac's hand against his face was gentle but determined, sliding up through his hair to rub his temple. His eyes were dark, his mouth...his face, that face he knew...Methos closed his eyes and stilled himself against terror. "Yes."

"Then talk later." Mac was kissing him again, softly, repeatedly, cradling his face with his hand, until the fear dissolved into hunger. Methos worked a hand under his shirt to feel the long slopes of that back, his oily fingers skimming across heated skin. He traced the indented spine until it disappeared under the belt that lay too snug across Mac's back. He thrust his fingers under, searching, digging in his nails in frustration. Mac pinched his nipple through the woolen sweater and he jumped. Mouth set to mouth, they rocked and jockeyed for position, wrestling until he was on his side, Mac's hand hard between his legs and taking him slowly apart from the outside. He bucked into the pleasure, and gripped the belt, trying to focus on getting inside, underneath, finding flesh behind those damned barricaded pants until he pushed Mac back in frustration and yelled, "Take it off!"

Mac laughed and rolled onto his back, flicking open the buckle. The pants were light wool, crumpled, stained with sauce. Methos reached over and slid down the zipper with shaking hands, curled his fingers around the contours of the heavy sex, shifting under his clasp, hot inside the thin cotton briefs. He ran his thumb up the side of Mac's cock, then fumbled in the fabric, trying to push the underwear clear while Mac was pulling up the hem of his sweater and opening his jeans, getting in his way. He clenched his fist once around the still-shrouded shaft, then sat up and ripped his sweater off. "Just lie down, damn it, or we're never going to get this done."

Mac laughed again and lay back, arms behind his head. "Another demonstration of technique?"

Methos slowly straightened to his knees, naked to the waist, jeans peeling open to expose his erect and straining cock, and reached behind him for his bowl.

"No you don't!" Mac jack-knifed up and made a grab, jarring the bowl from his hand, splashing sauce down Methos's chest. As he struggled, Mac dug a slick and greasy hand inside his jeans and captured his cock. He slid his fist up and down, thumb rolling over the tip, squeezing and pumping faster while he caught Methos's mouth and kissed him ruthlessly, biting his lip as Methos panted and whimpered and jerked his hips forward until he came, yelling into Mac's mouth.

He clung to Mac for a minute, boneless. The feeling ebbed, and he pushed himself back onto his heels, taking his bearings. He was damp and sticky, stained with sauce, with semen smeared across his stomach. A shiver rattled him.

"Hey." Mac palmed the side of his face and he looked up. "It's messy if you do it right." He was joking but his eyes were serious, his gaze intent, with that line of concern back between his brows.

"Mac...we have to talk."

"Later." He stroked his hand down his face and the side of his neck to rest on his shoulder. "Tomorrow, the day after, the day after that." A gentle kiss, that Methos felt himself respond to. Mac lowered his voice, rumbling in his ear. "There's so much more I want to do with you." He traced a finger around Methos's nipple, slick with marinara. "There's more I want you to do with me." He squeezed the back of Methos's neck. "I missed you. I came back."

Methos looked at the red splattered across the thin mats and bare floor; then at Mac, aroused, hot, alive. " What's a little sauce between friends?" He sank into the offered welcome, wrapped Mac's heat and smell and taste around himself and hung on while the world moved.

Trim the pricks, smack the bottom, loosen the leaves, cut out the choke. And reach the heart.

-End- 

**Author's Note:**

> When this was originally posted to my old Geocities website, I included the recipe for stuffed carciofi, one of my favorites. I think this was the first food story I wrote and, in its time, readers liked it. I didn't realize that I didn't move all my Highlander stories to AO3. Most of them are still up on Highlander Fiction archive (hlfiction.net).


End file.
